


A Time For Sleep

by lamardeuse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 05:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: After their escape from Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale begins to exhibit some odd symptoms.





	A Time For Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt [here](https://tadfield-advertiser.dreamwidth.org/517.html?thread=472069#cmt472069). Thanks so much to the OP for the inspiration! My first toe dipped in the fandom and it's utter fluff, but it's a fun way to start. <3

There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.  
―Homer, _The Odyssey_

Aziraphale doesn't recognise the feeling at first; it begins as a nagging sort of numbness at the base of his skull, spreading rapidly to his limbs. It's when he almost trips over a pile of books that should have been quite easy to side-step that he becomes concerned.

Crowley has been asleep on the couch in his back room for nearly an hour. After leaving the Ritz, by unspoken agreement, they strolled through the tourist-packed streets of Piccadilly and Soho until they reached the bookshop, and they subsequently proceeded to get pleasantly tipsy. After a couple of hours, Crowley yawned expansively and stretched like a contented cat, and Aziraphale studiously avoided staring at the pale strip of bared skin that was revealed as Crowley's shirt rode up.

There's no one watching either of them any more. No one to see, or care, or judge, or punish. Still, there remains the small matter of Crowley. What he wants, or doesn't, would certainly be easy enough to determine, but for some reason Aziraphale can't bring himself to ask the question. He tells himself it's been rather a Day and it's perfectly understandable to want to wait for a bit before taking that last, and perhaps in some ways, greatest risk, but he's also worried that if he doesn't speak up now, the moment may be lost. He feels poised on a knife's edge, and after finding deep wells of courage within himself that he'd never known were there, the irony of his position is not lost on him.

In the meantime, his limbs are getting heavier. It's slightly alarming.

Aziraphale drags his feet over to the couch and says Crowley's name. Crowley doesn't so much as twitch.

“Crowley!”

“Hnghhh,” Crowley says, yellow eyes opening to half mast. “Whut s'it?”

“I'm feeling – odd.”

Crowley goes from groggy to wide awake in a split second. He's on his feet in a trice, leaning towards Aziraphale, his slitted gaze searching. “Odd how? What's wrong?”

“I'm experiencing a – I don't know how to describe it.”

“Any pain? Are you in pain?” Crowley demands. His hands rise and hover over Aziraphale's shoulders, his fingers twitching.  
  
Aziraphale shakes his head, and Crowley's hands drop without touching him. “No.” He eyes widen as he watches the relief spread over Crowley's face. “I – you don't – ah, you don't suppose they found out we were – and this is some kind of – retaliation –”

Crowley purses his lips. “I'd imagine that would involve a whole lot of screaming, and you're not doing that, so I'm trying to stay optimistic. Now, what are you feeling?”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well, ah, I'm suddenly rather clumsy. And my arms and legs feel so heavy. And – I can barely keep my head up.” He reaches for the back of his neck and rubs the numb spot, to try to coax it back to life.

He looks up and catches Crowley staring at him unblinkingly. This is not, in itself, unusual, but the fact that he then bursts into helpless laughter is somewhat out of character. Not to mention bloody annoying.

“Well, that's a bit rude, I must say,” Aziraphale complains. “I could be in _grave_ danger here and you're–”

“You're – you're not,” Crowley can only manage short bursts of words in between the bouts of giggles. _Really, _Aziraphale thinks. “In danger. Angel.” Crowley closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again he's managed to compose himself. “You're just – tired.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Tired?” Could that really be all it was?

“You've honestly never felt it before?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Happens to me all the time.”

“But I – I don't need to sleep.”

“Neither do I. Not because of any physical need. But there are times when – I can't imagine doing anything else. I feel – full.” Crowley touches his hand to his forehead. “Fed up to here. Price of seeing some things the way they really are, I reckon.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, understanding dawning. “I suppose if there was ever a day for it –”

“– you just had it,” Crowley finishes for him.

“I think we both did.”

Crowley's chin rises slightly, and Aziraphale feels a small shudder go through him. In some ways, watching the growing realisation on Crowley's beloved face is more terrifying than watching Lucifer tear his way out of the earth.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begins, then stops. Clears his throat. Abruptly finds the row of books behind Aziraphale's head fascinating. “I should – go. Let you rest.”

“Will you show me?”

Crowley's gaze returns to his face. “Show you? How to sleep?”

“I know it sounds absurd. But I've never done it.”

“It's easy. Like falling off a log.”

“I've never done that either.”

That earns him a brief chuckle. “Aziraphale,” Crowley says again, shaking his head.

“We could sleep together. I mean – ah, that is to say, if you're tired too, we could – sleep in the same bed. Place. Somewhere. And that way I could know if I'm doing it right. The sleeping. Erm.”

Crowley stares at him.

“Oh, blast, I'm going about this all wrong,” Aziraphale huffs, covering his face with his hands. “It's only that I'm so muddle-headed, you see, and I –”

The words stutter to a halt in Aziraphale's throat when he feels cool fingers brush against his own, pry them gently away from his face.

Crowley is suddenly very close, and his eyes are the eyes of someone who's been waiting a very long time. His hands, which are still gripping Aziraphale's in the small space between them, are trembling ever so slightly.

“You're doing fine,” Crowley rasps. “You're doing fine, Angel.”

“Oh, Crowley –” Aziraphale begins, but Crowley cuts him off when he bends his head to touch his lips to Aziraphale's knuckles. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

“We're both exhausted,” Crowley murmurs. “And if there's anything I want to be completely awake for –” He catches and holds Aziraphale's gaze, and Aziraphale feels as though he's on _fire._

“You'll stay?” Aziraphale manages.  
  


“As long as you want me,” Crowley vows.

_Forever,_ Aziraphale thinks but doesn't say, because Crowley is right. Some things are worth waiting a little longer for. Instead, he squeezes Crowley's hands before releasing them and turns to lead him up the stairs, trusting Crowley to follow.

When Aziraphale wakes up, it's nothing like the scenes he's read in countless books over the centuries. It's not a gentle awakening brought about by the gradual creep of the dawn's light, or a shock from a loud noise in the street outside. He isn't greeted by the soft press of a handsome prince's lips.

He wakes because a demon kicks him in the shin.

“I say – !” Aziraphale exclaims, recoiling from the sharp pain. Beside him, Crowley is whimpering, arms shoving desperately but ineffectually at the duvet as though it's too heavy to lift. His eyes are squeezed shut, and one of his bony feet juts out the far side of the covers.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sits up, putting a bit of distance between them as he contemplates the safest way to approach. After studying him for a moment, he leans over and swiftly snatches the duvet away, then just as swiftly retreats. “There. It's all gone. You can wake up now.”

“Hnf,” Crowley opines. He remains asleep, but his more violent movements slow, then stop. Aziraphale watches as Crowley rolls toward him and settles back into sleep. His hair looks as though a pair of squirrels have tried to use it for a nest, his mouth is slightly open and his cheek is imprinted with faint creases from his pillow.

He's beautiful.

Aziraphale feels as though he's been given a precious gift to be allowed to see him like this, rumpled and vulnerable. Shockingly, he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes; it's more than a little overwhelming to finally understand that Crowley trusts him, utterly and completely. They couldn't have had this a thousand years ago, or even ten. But now, he feels as though a crushing weight has been lifted from them both, a weight born of rules and obligations and other people's opinions.

Now, anything is possible.

Without thinking, Aziraphale reaches out and brushes his fingers, feather-light, over Crowley's messy hair. It's surprisingly soft; Aziraphale has always wondered, but of course Crowley would never stoop to earthly potions when a minor miracle would serve fashion just as well.

“I adore you so terribly, my dear,” he whispers, arranging a stray lock that's fallen over Crowley's forehead. “I have for a very long time.”

Crowley's eyes snap open.

Aziraphale begins to pull his hand away, then changes his mind. Instead, he lets his fingertips graze Crowley's cheek, trace the line of his jaw.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale murmurs. He reaches Crowley's chin, presses the center of it gently with the pad of his thumb.

Crowley's eyes flutter shut again. “How'd you sleep?”

“Wonderfully,” Aziraphale assures him, then realises he doesn't have anything to compare it to. “At least I think I did.”

“Told you,” Crowley says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Like falling off a log.” He turns his head slightly, and Aziraphale's fingers skate over his lips.

Aziraphale cannot think of anything in the world that he would rather do in that moment than kiss Crowley. It isn't the first time he's had that thought, but it's the first time there's absolutely nothing to stop him from doing it.

And so he does, taking Crowley's face in both hands and practically falling on the poor thing like a starving man on the last croissant in the patisserie. And if Crowley seems a bit surprised at first by Aziraphale's heartfelt but inelegant swoop and grab, he quickly catches on.

“Mmmph,” Crowley says appreciatively, after a few more moments. His arms have come up and his own fingers are carding through Aziraphale's hair, doubtless making it as unruly as his own.

“Quite,” Aziraphale manages, breaking off the kiss and leaning his forehead against Crowley's. He doesn't need to breathe, but still – bit overwhelming.

“Oi,” Crowley admonishes, touching a fingertip to the corner of Aziraphale's left eye, “none of that, now.”

“I do apologise, my darling,” Aziraphale says, enjoying the way Crowley's eyes widen at the endearment. “Perhaps one day I'll take it for granted that I can be this ridiculously happy.”

Crowley looks for a second or two as though a lorry has run over his foot, and then he smiles at Aziraphale with such radiance that it almost hurts to look at it.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale manages. And this time when he leans in, Crowley meets him halfway.


End file.
